“It has thirteen luk dapor, thirteen curves, and the pam or is called udan-mas; it means ‘golden rain.” Here, you see?” Guru pointed at the pattern in the metal, which looked like little drops of rain had spattered upon dry ground.
“This kris was supposed to bring good fortune and money for its owner.
“Some believe a good kris could kill slowly an enemy simply by stabbing his shadow–or even his footprints. If an enemy approached, a good kris would rattle in its sheath, to warn its owner of danger. The sight of the naked blade would turn a hungry tiger in its tracks. According to my great-uncle’s grandfather, this kris once flew from its sheath like the garuda and cut the wrist of a thief trying to enter his house during the dark of the moon.” Guru smiled.
“Of course, some of these old stories might have become embellished with the telling.” She returned the weapon to its sheath and held it in both hands on her lap, her coffee now growing cold on the doily upon the small table next to her chair.
” “My grandfather gave this to my father when he became a man, and my father gave it to my only brother when he became a man.” She stared into space, remembering.
“My brother died in the war against the Japanese before he could begin a family. Many of our young men died in that war. My father had no sons, no nephews after that war. So the kris came to be mine.” They sat quietly for a moment.
“I bore my husband three sons and a daughter.
Two of my sons live, and I have six grandsons and a great-grandson, and two granddaughters. My sons are old men, my grandsons are teachers and lawyers and businessmen, my granddaughters are a teacher and a doctor. They are a fine family, successful, scattered all over the country, and they are all good Americans. There is no wrong in this.
“But of all my family, none have studied the arts. Well, no, I do have a grandson in Arizona who plays taste kwon do, and one of my sons does tai chi to keep his joints limber, but none of them have studied silat.
You are my student, the holder of my lineage, and so now, this kris now belongs to you.” The old woman held the dagger out on the palms of her hands to Toni.
Toni knew this was no small thing for Guru, and she had no thought for refusing. She knelt in front of the old woman and took the weapon in both of her hands.
“Thank you. Guru.
I am honored.” The old woman smiled, tobacco stains on her teeth.
“Well you should say so, child, and a credit to my teaching that you should know to say so. I could not have wished for a better student.
You should keep this on the red silk pillow near the head of your bed when you sleep,” she said, waving at the KNIFE.
“It may make an American lover nervous, though.” She giggled.
Toni looked down at the smooth wood of the sheath. Why was Guru giving this to her now? She had a sudden chill.
“Guru, you aren’t… I mean, your health isn’t… ?” The old woman laughed.
“No, I’m not ready to leave just yet. But you have more need of the hantu than I do. I have had a full life, and you are still unmarried. A woman your age needs to think of such things. It is a magic blade, after all, kahThat’ Toni smiled.
“More coffee. Guru?” “Just half a cup. And tell me more of this young man who has yet to recognize your spirit. Maybe together we can find a way to wake him.” 13 Saturday, December 25th, 6:30 a.m. Alexandria, Virginia Julio Fernandez went to early mass at St. Gerard’s, in Alexandria.
He sat in the back of the small church, listening to Father Alvarez drone on in a dull monotone broken only occasionally by a louder “Lord,” which tended to rouse the sleepy congregation.
Fernandez was used to being up this early, of course, but usually he’d be moving, doing laps or running the obstacle course or otherwise keeping his blood circulating. Sitting on the hard wooden pew in a too-warm and stuffy building listening to the old priest who could preach this sermon in his sleep– and might well be doing just that–was not a good way to stay alert.
Still, if he hadn’t come to mass, he might have thought about lying to his mother, and he did not want to actually do that. He was on duty and couldn’t fly back for Christmas with the relatives. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He could have gotten leave because he had seniority, but there were other men with families locally who needed the time more than he did, so he had volunteered–but he didn’t have to tell Mama that. He would call her later today, she would be expecting that. There would be aunts and uncles and at least half of FeRN-ANDEZ’S six brothers and two sisters would be there in La Puente at Mama’s with their broods, probably bitching about the El Nino rains forecast to pound southern California. It wasn’t as if Mama was going to be rattling around in her house alone; still, she wanted to hear from her children who couldn’t get there, and the first question she would ask him after how was he doing would be had he gone to mass this morning Mama suspected that her third son was more lapsed than good Catholic, and she was right in that suspicion, but at least he could tell her he had in fact been to early mass. He could tell her how Father Alvarez, who had once been a parish priest where Mama went to church some forty years ago, looked.
Old, Mama, he would say, the man must be at least five or six hundred years old. I kept expecting somebody from the Cairo museum to come in and grab him, to take him back to King Tut’s pyramid where he belongs.
Mama would laugh at this, tell him how awful he was, but it would make her happy that he went to mass, at least on Christmas, and it wasn’t too much for a son to do for his mother, was it? One time a year?
So he’d get a few points for this–assuming he didn’t doze off on the pew, sleep all day, and completely miss calling home.
Saturday, December 25th, 7 a.m.
Boise, Idaho Alexander Michaels rang the doorbell of the house that had once been his. It was a big, wooden, two-story home built in the early 1900’s, at the top of a slight rise, with a high front porch at the top of ten broad steps. When the house had been built, it had been just outside what was then the city limits.
Boise had engulfed the neighborHO-OD long ago, but the houses along the street were still much as they had been a hundred years past. Outside of a new paint job that matched the old pale blue, and a couple of repaired steps and slats in the porch floor, the house looked the same as he remembered it. The same glider he’d installed when they’d bought the place hung on rusty chains at the south end of the porch, looking out over a somewhat cold rhododendron bush that would blossom a hard pink come the first warm weather. He’d spent some wonderful hours in that squeaky old wooden swing, looking out over that rhoddy bush, listening to the wind play in the big Doug fir trees that shaded the lot.
He heard his daughter’s footsteps and her yelling as she raced for the door.
“Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here!” Susie flung open the door and jumped. With her present under one arm he had to make the catch one-handed, but she helped by wrapping her arms and legs around him and hugging him tight. She wore a pair of red-flannel pajamas and butter yellow fuzzy slippers.
“Daddy!” “Hey, squirt. How are you?” “Great! Great! Come in, we’ve all been waiting on you to open presents!” Michaels stepped into the house, and what Susie had said registered.
We’ve all been waiting for you? Did she mean herself, Megan, and the dog Scout?
Susie slithered down and took off running down the hall for the living room. And sure enough, little Scout, the poodle who thought he was a wolf, came sliding around the corner from the kitchen, scrabbling on the hardwood floor, trying vainly for traction, to greet Michaels. The dog barked once, saw who it was, and wagged his tail so hard Michaels thought he might fall down. Michaels squatted and put the presents down as Scout ran and jumped into his arms. two, he thought.
As he stood, the little dog licking his face, Megan stepped into the hall from the living room.